Free Hunt Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #5) by Frederick H. Christian

forward hussy, now,’
Sherry Hardin said, almost to herself.
    Just pour the coffee in the cup this
time,’ Angel said, ‘and tell me about Larry Hugess.’
    She lifted the pot but didn’t tilt
it, and he looked at her, puzzled for a moment by the stiff shocked
look on her face. She had gone pale beneath the warm tan and her
eyes were fixed on the street outside. Angel turned quickly. A
phalanx of horsemen was coming down the street past the flat hulk
of the warehouse behind the depot. In its van was a solidly built
man in a dust-coated dark suit. At his right side rode Willie Johns
and on the other Danny Johnston.
    ‘ No need,’ Sherry Hardin said. ‘No
need now.’
    And Larry Hugess led his men through the town like a
king, along Front Street to the jail where Dan Sheridan stood
waiting.

Chapter
Eight
    Larry Hugess came down Front Street as if he owned
it.
    Frank Angel came out onto the porch
of the hotel to watch him go by and had to admit that Hugess was
something to watch. He was a big man, broad across the shoulders,
tall in the beautifully tooled Denver saddle, head erect, and eyes
disdainful. Hugess was clad in a dark blue suit which, although
dust-coated, was plainly tailor-made, as were the fine smooth
leather boots he was wearing, glowing the way leather only glows
from much and diligent polishing. If it hadn’t been for the rig
Hugess was using, Angel would have said he was a fine figure:
despite the fact that the gray Hugess was riding was a superb
animal with the arched neck and graceful lines of an Arab, Angel
noted that the man used a wicked-looking chileno, or ring bit. Any man who
knew horses also knew that this kind of hardware was liable to
break a horse’s jaw if used too severely: It was the cruelest bit
ever put into an animal’s mouth. If Hugess had been a working
cowman, nobody would have ridden alongside him. Angel noted too
that Hugess spurned the lighter Texas or California-style saddle,
burdening the animal with forty pounds and more of ornately tooled
and silver-decorated leather and a three-quarter rig, topped off by
the extra weight of an engraved Winchester carbine which Hugess
patently didn’t need to carry, since he had Willie Johns to guard
one flank, Danny Johnston to take the other side, and four men to
bring up the rear.
    He rode easily, Larry Hugess, a man quite sure of
himself and his dominion over this town. He had straight, heavy
features, the face just beginning to jowl, the neck thick and
obdurate. His eyes were shrewd and cool, assessing the mood of the
street, the calculating intelligence behind them considering,
weighing, accepting, rejecting.
    It had pleased him to lift his
blockade of the town, to remove his guards from the streets. In a
way his action had been symbolic: he was telling Sheridan in so
many words that it didn’t matter whether he sent for the US Marshal
or not. It would take several days for any Federal law to get to
Madison in enough force to set Larry Hugess back on his heels. By
that time it wouldn’t make any difference.
    He weighed Sheridan’s abilities
contemplatively as he approached the jail. A good man, but slowed
down to a walking pace by the injury to his gun hand. Still
dangerous though, as last night’s events had shown. That had been a
badly botched business, but since no one but a few of his men had
known the hired gun and the man had died without talking, no beans
had been spilled. He had been very careful to make sure that the
set-up was pulled by a stranger. But it had backfired; Sheridan and
his deputy had run Danny Johnston and the boys out of town twice,
which was a loss of face that must be redressed. The mood of the
town was cowed, though, he noted: which meant that the lesson of
Ridlow’s death had not been lost on them. Sheridan would find no
support among the townspeople. All he had was the drunk, Cade. Cade
might have held together for the business last night. Hugess
couldn’t see him hanging on when the going got